Through the Trees
by kenzimone
Summary: Beth, and Merle, and what comes after.


**Title**: Through the Trees  
><strong>Author<strong>: kenzimone  
><strong>Disclaimer<strong>: I own nothing  
><strong>Fandom<strong>: The Walking Dead  
><strong>Rating<strong>: G  
><strong>Word count<strong>: 1,500  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Beth, and Merle, and what comes after.  
><strong>Note<strong>: Implied Daryl/Beth. Set post 5x08. Makes for stage three, acceptance, as I haphazardly flop my way through the five stages of grief post-MSF. This is a weird piece, the result of spending all evening browsing the Bethyl tag on Tumblr and then staying up until two o'clock writing. Not really intended as a companion piece to _A Better Grave Than This_, but could be, if you're so inclined.

* * *

><p>The trees all look the same.<p>

She keeps on walking, has been going for what seems like hours now, but she can't say for sure that she's made any progress. She woke up on a bed of moss, disoriented and confused, and found herself alone. Was nothing left to do but to get up, choose a direction, and start moving.

She's still alone, still walking, but she feels good, feels strong like she hasn't in a while. Her cast is gone, the skin of her face smooth and soft, and she finds that she doesn't mind it much, being lost in these woods. Walking in circles.

The forest smells old, feels timeless in the way forests sometimes does, and she stops to breathe it in, to inhale the leaves and the moss, the distinctive smell of the trees, rich and deep and comforting. She closes her eyes and spins in place, figuring that one direction is as good as any other when you have no idea where you are, how you got there, or where you're headed.

She could walk forever without reaching the edge of these woods. Is fully prepared to do it, too, as far as she's concerned.

"Well, lookie what we got here..."

She jerks to a stop, eyes opening, and turns around to see Merle Dixon sprawled out on his back in the middle of a glade, soaking up the sun like a big tabby cat. He looks almost pleased to see her, grinning that same shark toothed smile that used to almost frighten her back at the prison. It doesn't seem so threatening here, in the sunshine.

"Looking for my baby brother, Songbird?" he says, and somehow makes it sound like it isn't actually a question at all.

She recovers her composure, tilts her chin up. "What makes you think I am?"

He chuckles and closes his eyes, folding his hands over his chest. "You here, ain't ya?"

The glade isn't large; can't be more than twenty feet across, an almost perfect circle, blanketed by a thick carpet of green grass and ringed by birch trees, trunks whiter and smoother than should seem possible. The center of the glade is bathed in sunlight, so warm and inviting that for a moment she's tempted to join Merle where he lies basking, and far above her head, beyond the softly rustling canopy, the sky is painted a brilliant, endless blue.

It feels almost like an anomaly, this place; like a priceless treasure, tucked away deep within the ageless forest. When she tries to look beyond the sunshine, passed the birches and in the direction from where she thinks she came, there's nothing but a sea of trees, stretching as far as she can make out. She wonders how she found this place, and experiences a sudden moment of disorientation, gone as quickly as it appeared.

"I must've gotten lost," she says. "I don't even know where 'here' is."

Merle snorts. "Ain't no such thing as being lost in these here parts of the woods, Girl." He pats the grass beside him. "Why don't you come lie down next to ol' Merle? Nothin' improper about it, cross my heart. Practically family by now, ain't we?"

She ignores him, stepping out of the shadow and into the sunlight. It feels nice on her skin, makes her feel oddly sleepy. She takes a seat, Indian style, making sure to stay out of arm's reach as Merle pushes himself up onto his elbows, eyes hooded but keen as he looks her over. She tries not to fidget under the scrutiny, shooting him a glare when he lets out a sharp whistle.

"You sure gone grown up, Blondie," he says. "Didn't think you had it in ya."

She looks away. "Where is everyone?"

"Takin' their damn sweet time gettin' here," Merle mutters in reply.

Beth digs her fingers into the grass, the blades tickling her palms. "How long have you been waitin'?" she asks.

He shrugs. "Few hours. A week, maybe. Couple o' months. Hard to tell, seeing as how the sun don't move."

She cranes her head back, shielding her eyes against the light, and tries to tell if he's speaking the truth. The sun hangs off-center in the sky, large and brilliant, and the leaves of the tree tops move softly, disturbed by a gust of air she cannot feel. The thought hits her:

"How long have _I_ been here?"

Merle lies back down, closing his eyes against the light. "It don't matter," he murmurs. "Ain't no hurry. He'll be here soon enough."

He's right. She knows he is.

"And then?" she asks, which makes him frown, like the thought of what would happen next hadn't occurred to him.

"And then we leave," he finally says. "Ain't waitin' for no one else."

"Leave to find the others."

The fingers of Merle's left hand, resting on his chest, twitch. "Yeah," he agrees. "'S right. Seen a few pass by already, through the trees. Just gotta follow the sun."

She frowns. "But the sun doesn't move."

"No," Merle says. "It don't."

She watches as his breathing slows, easing off into sleep, before unfolding her legs and moving closer. She settles down beside him, and the grass is soft against her cheek, the ground surprisingly comfortable on her back. She feels warm and safe lying there, next to another person, someone she knows, secure in the knowledge that nothing will crawl out of the woods to harm her.

She dozes, falling into a dreamless slumber, and wakes to the warmth of the sunshine on her skin, the rustling of the birch leaves overhead. The sky doesn't change, the same deep blue, and neither does the position of the sun. She can't tell how long she's slept, how many times she's woken, and next to her Merle is whistling what sounds like an old folk song or maybe a lullaby.

Her eyes flutter closed again.

She drifts for a while, until a hand comes to rest on her shoulder, touch heavy but not invasive, giving her a shake and rousing her from her repose. She finds Merle crouched next to her, a picture of stillness, his eyes trained on something beyond the glade. She turns to follow his gaze and catches sight of a tall man, broad shouldered and barrel chested, moving through the undergrowth. His hair gleams a wild red against the backdrop of the forest, and a petite dark haired woman walks beside him, her hand clasped in his, her steps sure and determined.

"You know 'em?" Merle asks.

"No." Beth watches as the couple make their way through the woods, moving with the confidence of two people who know with absolute certainty where they're headed.

Merle hums and gets to his feet, languidly stretching his arms above his head before settling down beside her once more. "Won't be long now," he says. "Won't be long at all."

They watch the trees in silence. She can't find much to say to Merle Dixon, a man who appeared out of the woods and who she knew barely a week before he left again, never to return. She doesn't dare to bring up Daryl, the one thing they share in common, recalling Merle's slow, knowing smile when she first found herself in the glade so long ago. It's better to be quiet, to tilt her face up against the sunshine and breathe in the sweet smell of the grass.

More people pass by. Some of them weave through the trees far away, so deep into the distance that she can't make out more than their clothes or their hair, flashes of color appearing and disappearing against a backdrop of muted bark. Others venture closer, enough so that she can see their faces. She doesn't recognize any of them, though she hears Merle hum to himself now and again. She gets the sense that they're all headed in the same direction, but when she tries to find her bearings she's left feeling confused and disoriented, her head spinning from the effort, so she stops trying.

Merle begins to whistle another song, something slow and sad, and she leans back, dreams of songbirds, of tracking a doe through dense undergrowth, knife on her hip and encouraging words whispered in her ear, a warm hand resting on the small of her back.

She's jostled awake by Merle, his boots knocking against her own as he rises to his feet. He cuts a dark silhouette against the bleeding sky, towering above her, and over his shoulder Beth can see the sun begin to set behind the leaf canopy.

She can hear the rustling of branches behind her, the sound of heavy footsteps snapping twigs. A breeze tugs at her hair, and she shivers as the shadows grow longer, colder.

It's time to leave this place.

"'Bout time you got your sorry ass here," Merle says above her, something like relief coloring his words. "Taught you better than to keep a lady waitin', Baby Brother."


End file.
